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Lafayette WattlesWhat She’s Become
Her hair is gold— and her ears are discarded and her eyes are corrals and her smile is a kite tail and her tongue is summer and her song is a robin’s egg and her reasons are ice skates and her shoulders are a bridge and her arms are consolation ribbons and her elbows are check marks and her hands are worn geisha fans and her fingers are capsized kayaks and her ribs are rows of yeses and her belly-button is the smallest part and her skin is a map and her hips are a wishbone and her legs are the towers of a sieged castle and her sinews are shorted Christmas lights and her calves are hamsters and her heels are slingshots and her footprints are misplaced detour signs and her dreams are unmanned lighthouses and her promises are shooting stars and her sigh is a continent
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